baby, things won't be half as bad (but only if you keep me close)
by parksborns
Summary: "I'm okay," she murmurs, traces her thumb along the lines of Bash's palm. "We're okay". -— mary/sebastian; post 1x11.


**notes:** EPISODE FEELS, EPISODE FEELS, EPISODE FEELS. i have lost all control.

**more notes:** i wrote this a week ago and i had absolutely no intention of posting it. it's nothing serious, really, but i found it gathering dust in my drafts a while ago when i was cleaning it out and idk, it feels kinda nice to finally have it out.

**warnings:** i have a habit of making my characters ooc, so. that's it, i think.

**characters/relationships:** some mary, some bash, and whole lot of the two of them together. a little bit of queen catherine too, but not really. mary-centric.

**disclaimer:** own nothing.

.

.

.

**baby, things won't be half as bad (but only if you keep me close)**

.

.

.

There's a humming at the back of her throat that soon turns into a thrashing and her mind is screaming at her, telling her to _getupbreathemove_, but her fingers have grown numb. She fumbles for a moment, panicked, frantic, at the edges of the tub, but it's too far out of reach. She wants nothing more than to be resolute, to be unafraid and hold her ground, but the water in her lungs makes it a little too hard to think and her eyes start close of their own accord.

She's too young, she thinks, to see her life flash before her eyes. She's seventeen and young (so, so young)—there's nothing to see. But what wouldn't she give to see her mother's smile again? She thinks she'd like to hear her friends' laughter one more time; wants to see Francis' face before she goes, wants to hold him close and feel her hand in his, wants to tell him, _I'm sorry_.

She thinks the bark of laughter she heard might have belonged to Sebastian, but she can't be sure. It's hard to tell.

This is it, she thinks, a little sad, but mostly just tired. This is it. She can't bre—

"Mary!" Footsteps pounding. Something heavy crashing. It's a voice, her mind registers. Low and frantic. Warm. Familiar.

"Bash," she says, or tries to. Mary doesn't know, Mary can't tell. Her voice sounds like someone's ripped it to shreds with a blunt knife, but she hears it all the same. Someone hauls her out of the tub, hands curling gently around her waist. She's weightless all of a sudden and then there's a rush of air, a flash of color, the ragged calliope of her breathing and the sound of shouting.

"Hey," someone murmurs, and her fingers slip over another's; a bony wrist; a calloused palm. A warm place. A safe place.

Sebastian.

"I've got you," he says quietly, wrapping a towel around her shoulders and drawing her close. One of his arms come up to smoothen her hair back and she closes her eyes when she finds the other wound around her waist, tracing soothing patterns into her skin. The towel, she realizes then, is the only thing keeping the whisper of space between them, but she can't quite bring herself to care. She's far past indecency at this point.

"I've got you," he says again and Mary swallows; allows her head to fall into the hollow of his throat as tears start to burn the back of her eyelids. _I am a queen,_ she thinks and it's supposed to be comforting, but it breaks her all the same.

"Sebastian," she breathes, swallows. Her hands shake and so do her shoulders, but if she closes her eyes, she can almost only feel his arms around her waist; his fingers nestled in her hair. She can pretend this never happened. "Catherine tried to kill me".

Mary will remember later, when Sebastian goes very still. His hands are gentle around her waist; delicate on her skin, but it scares her, she'll admit, the coil of strength beneath his hands, barely suppressed and tempered with rage; the anger flaring to life in his bones, his blood simmering like a quiet, quiet flame.

"Take her away," Sebastian snarls, voice dangerously low. His hands are very still, cool against her cursed, feverish burning skin. She didn't think it was possible, but he folds her closer. "Chain her up like the animal she is!"

He's shaking too, she realizes, and she remembers with perfect clarity, the way he said he would cut down anything for her; remembers the whip of bright orange leaves; remembers her hand in his; remembers the way he had held Isabelle's right before she died; remembers his smile slicing over one cheek as he held the babe in his arms, warm and unbidden. Gentle. Acquiescent.

He is nothing like that now, she finds. So unlike the Sebastian she knows. She thinks of the blood on his hands; of the things he keeps close to his heart; of the man he had once killed for her sake; of the many more he would be willing to risk for her.

"He's a man with secrets," Catherine snarls as the guards come, the fire in her eyes growing every bit of bright as the hatred in her heart. "And you have made a choice that will be your ruin".

There's something dead and dry at the back of her throat; something warm and dizzying stirring in her chest, but for a moment, Mary forgets. You have no right, she thinks and her fingers curl; something is rising at the back of her throat. Don't you dare, she might have said had she not just been about to die, had she still had her voice.

"I know exactly who he is," Mary fires back instead. "And I have made the perfect choice, because together," she pauses, stands up tall, "we have killed you".

There's a moment where Mary thinks Catherine might actually do it—break free from the guards, bury the knife in her heart and end them both —but instead she draws back and allows her lips to curl into something ugly, something feral and her eyes are cold as the guards whisk her away.  
It's not a victor

y, she knows. It's far from over, but Mary sighs and presses herself into Sebastian's chest; closes her eyes and lets his fingers curl gently around hers.

Bash looks like the way she feels, as though someone should say something they don't have the strength to. Neither of them are shaking, but her hands are cold and his spine is impossibly straight, so much tension buried between the hard line of his mouth and his shoulder blades. Mary grazes her knuckles over his cheek as she leans in further into the solid warmth of him; allows him to press a kiss into her forehead to reassure the both of them.

"Alright?" Bash murmurs into her hair, trailing brave fingers over the slope of her spine. He's touching her, but barely. It still takes all of her concentration not to shiver.

I'm fine, she wants to say, but then the world shifts and everything grows bigger and smaller all at once. Before she can fall however, his arms find her (just as she knew they would, just as she knew they always would) and then he's gathering her up into his arms; cradling her against his chest as her fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket.

"I'm s-sorry," she murmurs, but he cuts her off, folding her closer into him.

"Don't," Sebastian shakes his head. His voice is low and warm again, but there's still something rough fraying around the edges. "You don't have to apologize to me. You never have to apologize to me".

Don't tell me what to do, some childish, defiant part of her thinks, but she falls silent, too tired to say anything else. She lets him carry her though, and the familiar warmth of him is grounding. Mary closes her eyes, curls her fingers tighter.

Even with her eyes closed, she can tell that they're moving. Mary can feel his heart pounding beneath her fingers and her own heartbeat feels wildly erratic. She can still feel herself slipping away, even as they move towards his bedroom, even as he grips her tight, even as he says, a little fiercely, "You are not dying on me, Mary, do you hear me? You are not going to die. Not today".

You wouldn't know, she might have said. You might be wrong, she might have said. "I'm cold," she says instead.

She can still feel it, even as he slips one of his shirts over her shoulders, even as he pulls down the covers and tucks her in, even as he grips her hand in his, looking so lost, looking so sad. She pulls herself up, just enough for her to reach out and cup his cheek. He leans into her touch, lips brushing over her knuckles gently, but his eyes never once leave hers.  
Neither of them speak for a long time.

"I'm sorry," Bash's shoulders hunch. There's an ache in his voice when he says it, like what just happened was his fault. "I should have known".

"No," Mary shakes her head. "You saved me—"

"But they hurt you," Sebastian says, his shoulders slouching a bit more. He runs a hand through his hair, sounding tired more than anything else. "I should have seen, Mary. I should have known. I never should have let them touch you".

"There was nothing you could do".

He exhales sharply, like he's been holding his breath for days and even in the dark, Mary can see that his eyes are very bright. She thinks of the time from before all of this, when he was just a beautiful boy who'd offered her his friendship and understanding and kindness when she'd needed it most. He opens his mouth to say something else but she cuts him off before he can.

"I'm okay," she murmurs, traces her thumb along the lines of Bash's palm. "We're okay".

Bash lifts his head a little, high enough that their eyes catch. "And you're sure," he says, and then he stops. She grips his hand a little tighter and he lets out a shaky breath, tries again. "You're sure you're alright?"

She thinks about Catherine, thinks about the knife, the blood on her hands and the hatred in the woman's eyes. She thinks about her mother, powerless to do anything to help her from where she is; thinks about Francis, gone even after he promised he wouldn't leave. She has no one she can turn to now. There's no one she can trust. There's only Bash.

And that's all Mary needs.

"Yes," she says and then a little louder, "I'm safe here. With you".

The corners of his mouth twist a little and he looks like he's about to say something more, but he lets her tug him to bed when she reaches out to grab his hand. He slides in next to her and their legs collide; tangling under the sheets. He wraps an arm around her waist and Mary shifts until her head is on his chest; his fingers tangled in her hair. Neither of them move for a moment; the steady sound of their breaths mingling together the only one heard, and then, very slowly, his fingers brush over her hair, moving up and down and then back again.

They're quiet and then, Mary says, after a while, "I'm really tired".

"I know," Sebastian says back, his voice a low rumble in the dark. He presses closer and grips her hand in hers, filling in the hollow spaces between her fingers. "Go to sleep. I'll still be here when you wake up".

"You won't leave?"

"No," he answers. And there is a pause. "Never".

And then everything is quiet, the night weighed down by all that they've seen. Mary doesn't think she'll be able to sleep, but Sebastian's breath is warm on her skin; the familiar cadence of his arms at once strong and comforting. Thank you, she thinks, fingers tracing the curve of his cheek; the angle of his jaw. Sebastian's eyes flutter close and his breathing goes deep. He doesn't lean in to kiss her, but his fingers curling around hers is a different story altogether and she falls asleep to the sound of his breathing.

.

.

.

**fin.**


End file.
